


An Extant Form of Life

by theorangewitch



Series: Angstober [8]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Angst, Forgetting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 06:40:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16236260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorangewitch/pseuds/theorangewitch
Summary: Half a mile from the temple to Ioun that Zipporah Basevi called home, there was a graveyard. It was small and crumbling, and adjoined an equally small and crumbling temple to a god who was no longer worshiped in the same way, by the same people as they had once been. Acolytes of Ioun were rarely allowed to wander on their own, especially outside of town, but the people in charge of Zipporah had given up on trying to control her habits. So she ended up frequenting the place when she had no more chores to do and no more books to read.





	An Extant Form of Life

**Author's Note:**

> SO I messed up. I wrote the Day 8 prompt (Terminal Illness) for Day 7. So, this is the Angstober Day 7 Prompt - Forgetting. Yesterday I posted the Day 8 prompt. 
> 
> This story is a piece of a larger one. You'll learn more about Zipporah and her family on Days 13 and 14 - Revenge and Hear Our Prayer. 
> 
> As always, the link to the full Angstober challenge is in the author's note of the first work in this series.

Half a mile from the temple to Ioun that Zipporah Basevi called home, there was a graveyard. It was small and crumbling, and adjoined an equally small and crumbling temple to a god who was no longer worshiped in the same way, by the same people as they had once been. Acolytes of Ioun were rarely allowed to wander on their own, especially outside of town, but the people in charge of Zipporah had given up on trying to control her habits. So she ended up frequenting the place when she had no more chores to do and no more books to read.

The land where she lived was a gray one. The sky overhead was often stained with clouds and the sunlight that filtered through them had a washed-out quality to it. This afternoon promised rain, but Zipporah tucked her sketchbook under her arm and headed out to the graveyard anyway. When she she got there, she took a moment to wander through the overgrowth, ivy and Victoria creeper kissing the toes of her boots. A mourning dove cooed somewhere in the distance. 

Then she picked a grave. It had a dip in the top of it from where rain and wind had eaten it away, and it was all but completely consumed by ivy. White mushrooms popped out of the ground like enormous pearls. There was a ladybug crawling over top of it, and Zipporah held out her finger for the little bug, which climbed onto her nail. She found herself momentarily fascinated by it. So small and fragile, and so red in this gray and green expanse. She placed her fingers on her head and let it crawl into her dark hair before she leaned over to examine the grave she’d chosen more closely. 

The name on it was faded beyond recognition, but with a little effort, it could be resurfaced. Zipporah placed a page from her sketchbook on top of it, then took a piece of charcoal from her belt pouch. She rubbed and rubbed until the name was visible on the sheet of paper, outlined in black.  _ Elisabeta Wintermute _ , it read, and then below it,  _ Rest Easy, Darling. _ There were a few other Wintermutes in the graveyard, so it wasn’t the first time Zipporah had come across the name. Even so, there were no Wintermutes in town, which was the closest bit of civilization to the graveyard, and no one at the temple knew the name. So the Wintermutes had passed on from this world, forgotten. 

Zipporah scooched across the ground so that her back was against the grave. She blew the spare charcoal dust from her sketchbook and examined the rubbing. Despite the faded lettering, this one had turned out well. She placed it on the ground and pulled out her sketchbook again. In the corner she wrote, “Elisabeta Wintermute”, and then she began to draw her. Or, rather, what she might have looked like. 

But of course, Zipporah’s drawings always turned out the same. She only ever drew women, and they were always tieflings, like Zipporah herself, with obsidian eyes like Zipporah’s, and ramlike horns like Zipporah’s. But they weren’t Zipporah. They were her mother. The women she drew had Mira Basevi’s soft halo of curls and ever-patient smile. When she colored them in, they had her red skin. Mira Basevi had red skin, while Tammuz Basevi had blue. Together they gave Zipporah her purple hue. 

The rest of the drawings’ facial features varied, though. The length of the nose, the size of the ears, the shape of the cheeks and eyes. It had been seven years since Mira had pressed her younger daughter into the arms of a temple officiant before taking her older daughter, Zipporah’s sister Talya away to find someplace safe that would take them in. It was an act of desperation the likes of which Zipporah had not seen since. Mira, Talya, and Tammuz’s faces were becoming smudges of blue and red in her mind, their features slowly blending together like watercolors not mixed properly. 

Zipporah finished her drawing and stood up. The rain that the temple priests had predicted was fast approaching, so she decided to head back. She wasn’t fast enough, though. The rain caught her, and she had to rush to stuff her sketchbook into her robes so it wouldn’t get wet. From there, she splashed down the road back towards the temple, mud splattering over her boots and up her legs. 


End file.
